


Late

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: Drunk on the Moon [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 07:33:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12206694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: totally not tuesday. It's late, I'm late, Porthos is late, Athos is late.





	Late

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



Athos gets in from shul late; he stayed back to talk to Rabbi Flint and then he caught up with Elodie and Bastien and they got talking and ended up at a late night café. It’s eleven thirty by the time he gets in so he’s soft and gentle with everything. He’s just getting himself a cup of coffee when the front door opens. He frowns, confused, Aramis is sometimes late when he’s on a shift but he’s not on a late one at the moment. Athos peeks out of the kitchen and sees Porthos hanging up his coat. 

“Hey,” Athos whispers. 

Porthos turns slowly, spots him, nods, and finishes hanging his coat and putting his shoes away before coming into the kitchen and helping himself to the coffee in the pot, sinking wearily into a chair. Athos sits too and doesn’t mention that the caffeine is likely to keep Porthos awake. 

“I thought you hired Antoinette Lemuet so you didn’t have to stay late,” Athos says, when Porthos seems to not be talking. 

“I did,” Porthos says. “One of my wait-staff had a problem. I sent her home with her friend, also wait-staff tonight.”

“A problem?” Athos asks. 

“I might’ve punched her problem,” Porthos says. Athos reaches across the table to get Porthos’s hand; his knuckles look bruised. Porthos shrugs and flexes his fingers, taking his hand back. “Bloody great problem he was, but not for long.”

“Are you in trouble?” Athos asks. 

“Nah. None of them want cops,” Porthos says. “Anyway, I stayed to finish up with Netty.”

“My rabbi was talking about forgiveness, tonight,” Athos says. “In the run up to Yom Kippur.” 

“She spoke, tonight?” Porthos asks. 

“Mm. No one else wanted to,” Athos says. “I talked to her afterwards.”

Porthos nods. Athos reaches for his hand again and Porthos sighs but lets him have it, lets him press kisses to each bruise. Athos then goes to bed and leaves Porthos to his brooding and his coffee. Aramis is there and he curls around Athos automatically. d'Artagnan’s up with Constance, in the attic room. Athos assumes that Porthos goes up to them; he doesn’t come in with him and Aramis anyway. He’s up in the morning when Athos finally gets going, Aramis long gone, Constance long gone, d’Artagnan mostly gone. Porthos makes Athos eggs and coffee then heads out too. 

Athos knows as soon as Porthos gets home that he’s sick. For one thing it’s only three pm, which is too early, and for another Porthos is doing that groggy thing he does when he doesn’t feel good, trailing his fingers over the wall and moving at a slow steady meander. Athos, in the kitchen not working (definitely not on tumblr though, because he’s SUPPOSED to be working so no tumblr), goes out to meet him but Porthos brushes him away and goes to the bedroom. He comes back out almost at once and glares until Athos gets his laptop and follows to the bedroom. 

“You look knackered,” Athos comments. 

“I did not go to bed last night,” Porthos says. “Where’s Aramis?”

“At work.”

“Get him to come home. He’s nicer than you.”

Athos doesn’t take offence quite pointedly, but he doesn’t call Aramis either. He does send a text. It must be enough because Aramis comes back a little early too, breezily talking about someone being early for a shift. He gets under the covers and lies on his back and chatters on until Porthos curls against his side, buries his face in Aramis’s shoulder, and cries. Aramis wraps himself tight around Porthos and Athos watches the gentle humming soothing as it happens, feeling himself relaxing too. Aramis sings a soft little song and pets Porthos’s hair and tells him he’s wonderful and perfect and everything, and Porthos cries a bit and then goes to sleep. 

“So?” Aramis asks. 

“Exhausted, maybe sick,” Athos reports, actually working now. He’s writing up notes for an article and only half paying attention; Porthos is asleep, he can relax a bit. 

“Hmm. Sick,” Aramis decides, testing the heat of Porthos with his fingers against Porthos’s cheek. “Poor thing.”

“Poor us, you mean. We’ll be passing it round unendingly,” Athos grumbles. 

“It’s probably not contagious, just a little fever. He gets those when he’s exhausted,” Aramis says, a bit annoyed. 

“He said you were nicer than me,” Athos mutters. 

“He’s grouchy and not feeling good, you are prickly at times,” Aramis says. 

“I can soothe. I am a soothing person,” Athos says. 

“Sure you are,” Aramis says. “But you’re wound tight today.”

That’s true. Athos pats Porthos’s shoulder in forgiveness. He smiles a bit, thinking about shul and Yom Kippur, Catherine and his Mother and Father will be coming down for the day and they’ll fast together and then eat together. His parents aren’t that devout but they do like doing family things like this and Yom Kippur is an important day for them, to think about Thomas. 

“Aramis?” Porthos says.

“Mm?” Aramis replies, carding his hand through Porthos’s curls, pressing kisses. 

“I don’t feel well,” Porthos says. 

“I know,” Aramis says. “So does Athos. He’s de-clawed now, can he snuggle?”

“Why isn’t he snuggling already?” Porthos moans. 

Athos puts his laptop aside, pressing play on the audiobook he was setting up to keep them entertained, and then snugs himself around Porthos’s back. When d’Artagnan comes home Aramis and Porthos are both asleep and Athos is drowsing, listening to The Hanging Tree by Ben Aaronavich. d’Artagnan climbs onto the bed with them and lies with his head on Athos’s thigh, an arm around Porthos, on his back.


End file.
